The life of a literary man offers but few points upon which even the pens of his professional brethren can dwell, with the hope of exciting interest among that large and constantly increasing class who have a taste for books. The career of the soldier may be colored by the hues of romantic adventure; the politician may leave a legacy to history, which it would be ingratitude not to notice; but what triumphs or matters of exciting moment can reasonably be hoped for in the short existence of one who has merely been a writer for the press? After death has stilled the pulses of a generous man such as Mr. Kelly was, it is with small anticipation of rendering a satisfactory return, that any one can undertake to sketch the principal events of his life.

It is, perhaps, a matter for felicitation that Mr. Kelly has been his own autobiographer. His narratives and recitals are nearly all personal. They are mostly the results of his own observation and experience; and those who, in accordance with a practice we fear now too little attended to, read the Preface before the body of the work, will, we trust, understand that the stories in which "Falconbridge" claims to have been an actor, are to be received with as much confidence as truthful accounts, as if some Boswell treasured them up with care, and minutely detailed them for the admiration of those who should follow after him.

Jonathan F. Kelly was born in Philadelphia, on the 14th day of August, A. D. 1817. Young Jonathan was, at the proper age, placed at school, where he acquired the rudiments of a plain English education, sufficient to enable him, with the practice and experience to be gained in the world, to improve the advantages derived from his tuition. He was, while yet a boy, placed for a time in a grocery store, and subsequently was employed by Lewis W. Glenn, a perfumer, whose place of business was then in Third street above Walnut.

In 1837, Jonathan, being of the age of nineteen years, determined to go out into the world to seek adventure and fortune. He accordingly set out for that great region to which attention was then turned – the Western country. Having but slight means to pay the expenses of traveling, he walked nearly the whole of the journey. At Chillicothe, in Ohio, his wanderings were for a time ended. The exposure to which he had been subjected, caused a very severe attack of pleurisy. It happened most fortunately for him that a kind farmer, Mr. John A. Harris, pitied the boy; whose sprightliness, social accomplishments, and good conduct, had made a favorable impression. He was taken into Mr. Harris' family, and assiduously nursed during an indisposition which lasted more than two months. This circumstance appeased his roving disposition for a time, and he remained upon the farm of his good friend, Mr. Harris, for two years, making himself practically acquainted with the life and toils of an agriculturist. In 1839, he concluded to return to Philadelphia, where he remained for a time with his family. But the spirit of adventure returned. He connected himself with a theatrical company, and traveling through Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia, was finally checked in his career at Pittsburg, where he undertook the management of a hotel. This business not being congenial, he soon sold out the establishment, and returned to Philadelphia. He shortly afterwards started away on a theatrical tour, which extended through most of the Southern States, and into Texas. In this tour, Mr. Kelly went through a great variety of adventures, saw many strange scenes, and obtained a fund of amusing experience, which afterward served him to great advantage in his literary sketches. After having thoroughly exhausted his roving desires, he returned to Philadelphia, where, indeed, upon his previous visit, he had become subject to a new attraction, the most powerful which could be found to restrain his wandering impulses. He had become acquainted with a worthy young lady, to whom, upon his return, and in the year 1842, he was married.

This union changed the thoughts and objects of Mr. Kelly. His wild, bachelor life was over; and he seriously considered how it was possible for him who had been educated to no regular business, to find the means of support for himself and family. Believing himself to have some literary capacity, he was induced to go to Pittsburg, in order to commence a newspaper in partnership with U. J. Jones. This enterprise was not a successful one, and with his companion he went to Cincinnati, where he enlisted in another newspaper speculation. The result of that attempt was equally unpropitious. Dissolving their interests, Mr. Kelly then removed with his family to New York. Here he commenced a journal devoted to theatrical and musical criticism, and intelligence, entitled "The Archer." Mr. J. W. Taylor was a partner with him in the publication. The twain also engaged in the fancy business, having a store in Broadway, above Grand street. The adventure there not being very successful, the partnership in that branch of their concern was dissolved, and Mr. Kelly commenced a book and periodical store nearly opposite. This was about the year 1844. "The Archer" was soon after discontinued, and Mr. K. returned to Philadelphia. About this time he commenced writing contributions for various newspapers, under the signature of "Falconbridge." His essays in this line, which were published in the "New York Spirit of the Times," were received with much favor, and widely copied by the press throughout the country. The reputation thus attained, was such that he found himself in a fair way to make a lucrative and pleasant livelihood. His sketches were in demand, and were readily sold, whilst the prices were remunerative, and enabled him to attain a degree of domestic comfort which he had before that time not known. From Philadelphia he removed to Boston, where he hoped to find permanent employment as an editor. During six months he relied upon the sale of his sketches, and again returned to New York, from which he was recalled by an advantageous offer from Paige & Davis, if he would undertake the control of "The Bostonian." He filled the editorial chair of that paper for two years, when it was discontinued. He had now plenty to do, and was constantly engaged upon sketches for the "Yankee Blade," "The N. Y. Spirit of the Times," and many other journals and magazines, adopting the signatures, "Falconbridge," "Jack Humphries," "O. K.," "Cerro Gordo," "J. F. K.," etc. During this time he projected "The Aurora Borealis," which was published in Boston. It was really one of the most handsome and humorous journals ever commenced in the United States, but it was very expensive. After some months' trial, "The Aurora Borealis" was abandoned. Mr. Kelly remained in Boston as a general literary contributor to various journals until, in 1851, he was induced to undertake the management of a paper at Waltham, Mass., entitled "The Waltham Advocate." This enterprise, after six months trial, did not offer sufficient inducements to continue it, and Mr. Kelly returned with his family to Boston. Whilst in that city, he had the misfortune to lose his eldest son, a fine promising boy about five years and four months old; he died after a sickness of between two and three days. Mr. Kelly was a kind and excellent husband, and affectionate father. He doted on his child; and the loss so preyed upon his spirits, that it produced a brooding melancholy, which he predicted would eventually cause his death. After this time, General Samuel Houston, of Texas, made him very advantageous and liberal offers if he would establish himself in that State. He left Boston for the purpose, but was detained in Philadelphia by the sickness of another favorite child. Whilst thus delayed, a proposal was made him to undertake the editorship of "The New York Dutchman." He remained in that position about four months, when still more advantageous offers were tendered him to conduct "The Great West," published at Cincinnati. In September, 1854, he reached that city, and entered upon his duties. He continued in the discharge of them about four months. In the meanwhile, he had become associated with the American party; and induced by those promises which politicians make freely, and perform rarely, he left the journal to which he was attached, to establish a paper entitled "The American Platform." But two numbers of this effort were published. Whilst his writings were lively and flowing, he was sick at heart. The loss of his son still weighed on his mind, and he was an easy prey to pestilence. He was attacked by Asiatic cholera; and died on the 21st of July, 1855, after twenty-four hours' illness, leaving a widow and three children to mourn his early death. His remains were deposited in Spring Grove Cemetery. There rests beneath the soil of that beautiful garden of the dead, no form whose impulses in life were more honest, generous, and noble, than those which guided the actions of Jonathan F. Kelly.

The writer of this short biography, who only knew Mr. Kelly by his literary works, and whose narrative has been made up from the information of friends, feels that he would scarcely discharge the duty he has assumed, without a few words of reflection upon the fitful career so slightly traced. For the useful purpose of life, it may well be doubted whether a dull, plodding disposition is not more certain of success, than lively, impulsive genius. Perseverance in any one calling, with a steady determination to turn aside for no collateral inducements, and a patience which does not become discouraged at the first disappointment, is necessary to the ultimate prosperity of every man. The newspaper business is one which particularly requires constant application, a determination to do the best in the present, and a firm reliance upon success in the future. There is scarcely a journal or newspaper in the United States, which has succeeded without passing through severe ordeals, whilst the slow public were determining whether it should be patronized, or waiting to discover whether it is likely to become permanently established. Mr. Kelly's wanderings in early life seem to have tinctured his later career with the hue of instability. Ever, it would seem, ready to enlist in any new enterprise, he was led to abandon those occupations, which, if persevered in, would probably have been triumphant. His life was a constant series of changes, in which ill-luck seems to have continually triumphed, because ill-luck was not sufficiently striven with. In all these mutations, it will be the solace of those who knew and loved him, that however his judgment may have led him astray from worldly advantage, his heart was always constant to his family. Affectionate and generous in disposition, he was true to them; and he persevered in laboring for them under every disadvantage. Altering his position – at times an editor – at times an assistant-editor – anon changing his business as new hopes were roused in his bosom – and then being a mere writer, depending upon the sale of his fugitive sketches for the means of support – in all these experiments with Fortune, he was ever true to the fond spirit which gently ruled at home. For the great purposes, and high moral lessons of existence, a faithful, constant heart has a wealth richer and more bountiful than can be bought with gold.

If it ain't right, I'll make it all right in the Morning!

A keen, genteely dressed, gentlemanly man "put up" at Beltzhoover's Hotel, in Baltimore, one day some years ago, and after dining very sumptuously every day, drinking his Otard, Margieux and Heidsic, and smoking his "Tras," "Byrons," and "Cassadoras," until the landlord began to surmise the "bill" getting voluminous, he made the clerk foot it up and present it to our modern Don Cæsar De Bazan, who, casting his eye over the long lines of perpendicularly arranged figures, discovered that – which in no wise alarmed him, however – he was in for a matter of a cool C!

"Ah! yes, I see; well, I presume it's all right, all correct, sir, no doubt about it," says Don Cæsar.

"No doubt at all, sir," says the polite clerk, – "we seldom present a bill, sir, until the gentlemen are about to leave, sir; but when the bills are unusually large, sir – "

"Large, sir? Large, my dear fellow" – says the Don – "bless your soul, you don't call that large? Why, sir, a – a – that is, when I was in Washington, at Gadsby's, sir, bless you, I frequently had my friends of the Senate and the Ministers to dine at my rooms, and what do you suppose my bills averaged a week, there, sir?"

"I can't possibly say, sir – must have counted up very heavy, sir, I think," responds the clerk.

"Heavy! ha! ha! you may well say they were heavy, my dear fellow —five and eight hundred dollars a week!" says the Don, with a nonchalance that would win the admiration of a flash prince of the realm.

"O, no doubt of it, sir; it is very expensive to keep company, and entertain the government officers, at Washington, sir," the clerk replies.

"You're right, my dear fellow; you're right. But let me see," and here the Don stuck a little glass in the corner of his eye, and glanced at the bill; "ah, yes, I see, $102.51 – a – a – something – all right, I presume; if it ain't right, we'll make it all right in the morning."

"Very good, sir; that will answer, sir," says the clerk, about to bow himself out of the room.

"One moment, if you please, my dear fellow; that Marteux of yours is really superb. A friend dined here yesterday with me – he is a – a gentleman who imports a – a great deal of wine; he a – a – pronounces your Schreider an elegant article. I shall entertain some friends to-night, here, and do you see that we have sufficient of that 'Marteux' and 'Schreider' cooling for us; my friends are judges of a pure article, and a – a I wish them to have a – a good opinion of your house. Understand?"

"Ah, yes, sir; that'll be all right," says the clerk.

"Of course; if it ain't, I'll make it all right in the morning!" says the Don Cæsar, as the official vanished.

"Well, Charles, did you present that gentleman's bill?" asks the host of the clerk, as they met at "the office."

"Yes, sir; he says it's all right, or he'll make it all right in the morning, sir," replies the clerk.

"Very well," says the anxious host; "see that he does it."

That evening a Captain Jones called on Don Cæsar – a servant carried up the card – Captain Jones was requested to walk up. Lieutenant Smith, U. S. N., next called – "walk up." Dr. Brown called – "walk up." Col. Green, his card – "walk up;" and so on, until some six or eight distinguished persons were walked up to Don Cæsar's private parlor; and pretty soon the silver necks were brought up, corks were popping, glasses were clinking, jests and laughter rose above the wine and cigars, and Don Cæsar was putting his friends through in the most approved style!

Time flew, as it always does. Capt. Jones gave the party a bit of a salt-water song, Dr. Brown pitched in a sentiment, while Colonel Green and Lieutenant Smith talked largely of the "last session," what their friend Benton said to Webster, and Webster to Benton, and what Bill Allen said to 'em both. And Miss Corsica, the French Minister's daughter, what she had privately intimated to Lieutenant Smith in regard to American ladies, and what the Hon. so and so offered to do and say for Colonel Green, and so and so and so and so. Still the corks "popped," and the glasses jingled, and the merry jest, and the laugh jocund, and the rich sentiment, and richer fumes of the cigars filled the room.

Don Cæsar kept on hurrying up the wine, and as each bottle was uncorked, he assured the servants – "All right; if it ain't all right, we'll make it all right in the morning!"

And so Don Cæsar and his bon vivant friends went it, until some two dozen bottles of Schreider, Hock, and Sherry had decanted, and the whole entire party were getting as merry as grigs, and so noisy and rip-roarious, that the clerk of the institution came up, and standing outside of the door, sent a servant to Don Cæsar, to politely request that gentleman to step out into the hall one moment.

"What's that?" says the Don; "speak loud, I've got a buzzing in my ears, and can't hear whispers."

"Mr. Tompkins, sir, the clerk of the house, sir," replies the servant, in a sharp key.

"Well, what the deuce of Tompkins – hic – what does he – hic – does he want? Tell – hic – tell him it's – hic – all right, or we'll make it all right – hic —in the morning."

Mr. Tompkins then took the liberty of stepping inside, and slipping up to Don Cæsar, assured him that himself and friends were a little too merry, but Don Cæsar assured Tompkins —

"It's all – hic – right, mi boy, all – hic – right; these gentlemen – hic – are all gentlemen, my – hic – personal friends – hic – and it's all right – hic – all perfectly – hic – right, or we'll make it all right in the morning."

"That we do not question, sir," says the clerk, "but there are many persons in the adjoining rooms whom you'll disturb, sir; I speak for the credit of the house."

"O – hic – certainly, certainly, mi boy; I'll – hic – I'll speak to the gentlemen," says the Don, rising in his chair, and assuming a very solemn graveness, peculiar to men in the fifth stage of libation deep; "Gentlemen – hic —gentlemen, I'm requested to state – hic – that – hic – a very serious piece of intelligence – hic – has met my ear. This gentleman – hic – says somebody's dead in the next – hic – room."

"Not at all, sir; I did not say that, sir," says the clerk.

"Beg – hic – your pardon, sir – hic – it's all right; if it ain't all right, I'll make it – hic —all right in the morning! Gentlemen, let's – hic – us all adjourn; let's change the see – hic – scene, call a coach – hic – somebody, let's take a ride – hic – and return and go to – hic – our pious – hic – rest."

Having delivered this order and exhortation, Don Cæsar arose on his pins, and marshalling his party, after a general swap of hats all around, in which trade big heads got smallest hats, and small heads got largest hats, by aid of the staircase and the servants, they all got to the street, and lumbering into a large hack, they started off on a midnight airing, noisy and rip-roarious as so many sailors on a land cruise. The last words uttered by Don Cæsar, there, as the coach drove off, were:

"All right – hic – mi boy, if it ain't, we'll make it all right in the morning!"

"Yes, that we will," says the landlord, "and if I don't stick you into a bill of costs 'in the morning,' rot me. You'll have a nice time," he continued, "out carousing till daylight; lucky I've got his wallet in the fire-proof, the jackass would be robbed before he got back, and I'd lose my bill!"

Don Cæsar did not return to make good his promise in the morning, and so the landlord took the liberty of investigating the wallet, deposited for safe keeping in the fire-proof of the office, by the Don; and lo! and behold! it contained old checks, unreceipted bills, and a few samples of Brandon bank notes, with this emphatic remark: – "All right, if it ain't all right, we'll make it all right in the morning!"

Don't you believe in 'em?

We are astounded at the incredulity of some people. Every now and then you run afoul of somebody who does not believe in spiritual knockers. Enter any of our drinking saloons, take a seat, or stand up, and look on for an hour or two, especially about the time "churchyards yawn!" and if you are any longer skeptical upon the spirit-ual manifestations as exhibited in the knee pans, shoulder joints, and thickness of the tongue of the mediums, – education would be thrown away on you.

The Old Black Bull

It's poor human natur', all out, to wrangle and quarrel now and then, from the kitchen to the parlor, in church and state. Even the fathers of the holy tabernacle are not proof against this little weakness; for people will have passions, people will belong to meetin', and people will let their passions rise, even under the pulpit. But we have no distinct recollection of ever having known a misdirected, but properly interpreted letter, to settle a chuckly "plug muss," so efficiently and happily as the case we have in point.

Old John Bulkley (grandson of the once famous President Chauncey) was a minister of the gospel, and one of the best edicated men of his day in the wooden nutmeg State, when the immortal (or ought to be) Jonathan Trumbull was "around," and in his youth. Mr. Bulkley was the first settled minister in the town of his adoption, Colchester, Connecticut. It was with him, as afterwards with good old brother Jonathan (Governor Trumbull, the bosom friend of General Washington), good to confer on almost any matter, scientific, political, or religious – any subject, in short, wherein common sense and general good to all concerned was the issue. As a philosophical reasoner, casuist, and good counselor, he was "looked up to," and abided by.

It so fell out that a congregation in Mr. Bulkley's vicinity got to loggerheads, and were upon the apex of raising "the evil one" instead of a spire to their church, as they proposed and split upon. The very nearest they could come to a mutual cessation of the hostilities, was to appoint a committee of three, to wait on Mr. Bulkley, state their case, and get him to adjudicate. They waited on the old gentleman, and he listened with grave attention to their conflicting grievances.

"It appears to me," said the old gentleman, "that this is a very simple case – a very trifling thing to cause you so much vexation."

"So I say," says one of the committee.

"I don't call it a trifling case, Mr. Bulkley," said another.

"No case at all," responded the third.

"It ain't, eh?" fiercely answered the first speaker.

"No, it ain't, sir!" quite as savagely replied the third.

"It's anything but a trifling case, anyhow," echoed number two, "to expect to raise the minister's salary and that new steeple, too, out of our small congregation."

"There is no danger of raising much out of you, anyhow, Mr. Johnson," spitefully returned number one.

"Gentlemen, if you please – " beseechingly interposed the sage.

"I haven't come here, Mr. Bulkley, to quarrel," said one.

"Who started this?" sarcastically answered Mr. Johnson.

"Not me, anyway," number three replies.

"You don't say I did, do you?" says number one.

"Gentlemen! – gentlemen! – "

"Mr. Bulkley, you see how it is; there's Johnson – "

"Yes, Mr. Bulkley," says Johnson, "and there's old Winkles, too, and here's Deacon Potter, also."

"I am here," stiffly replied the deacon, "and I am sorry the Reverend Mr. Bulkley finds me in such company, sir!"

"Now, gentlemen, brothers, if you please," said Mr. Bulkley, "this is ridiculous, – "

"So I say," murmured Mr. Winkles.

"As far as you are concerned, it is ridiculous," said the deacon.

This brought Mr. Winkles up, standing.

"Sir!" he shouted, "sir!"

"But my dear sirs– " beseechingly said the philosopher.

"Sir!" continued Winkles, "sir! I am too old a man – too good a Christian, Mr. Bulkley, to allow a man, a mean, despicable toad, like Deacon Potter – "

"Do you call me —me a despicable toad?" menacingly cried the deacon.

"Brethren," said Mr. Bulkley, "if I am to counsel you in your difference, I must have no more of this unchristian-like bickering."

"I do not wish to bicker, sir," said Johnson.

"Nor I don't want to, sir," said the deacon, "but when a man calls me a toad, a mean, despicable toad– "

"Well, well, never mind," said Mr. Bulkley; "you are all too excited now; go home again, and wait patiently; on Saturday evening next, I will have prepared and sent to you a written opinion of your case, with a full and free avowal of most wholesome advice for preserving your church from desolation and yourselves from despair." And the committee left, to await his issue.

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